


fly amanita

by GenOfEve



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dream Smp, M/M, Mushrooms, and he wants to see his boyfriend NOW please, george has spooky powers based off of the effects of the Fly Amanita mushroom, mushroom gogy, mushroom king george, there’s really only 2.5 seconds of dnf in here but it is absolutely mentioned so here it is, this is just a fun idea that I came up with nothing special!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenOfEve/pseuds/GenOfEve
Summary: fly amanita is characterised by red flesh with white spots and white gills. it is commonly known as a poisonous toadstool, containing neurotoxins which can cause hallucinations and possible unpleasant physical sensations.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sam | Awesamdude
Comments: 50
Kudos: 301
Collections: MCYT





	fly amanita

**Author's Note:**

> hi!
> 
> this is just a short little fun idea i was toying with over on tumblr!! basically, George has powers based around the subjective effects that fly amanita can cause upon consumption, and can manipulate people with them.
> 
> so like, the mushroom king, but a lot less cute and lot more aggressive because he would like to visit his boyfriend thank u.
> 
> pls enjoy!!!

There’s something  _ wrong  _ about the way George carries himself when he walks up to Sam.

There is tension in his body, muscles coiled tight and stiff, and his hands form delicate claws at his sides.

He doesn’t have his usual goggles with him today, and his eyes are hard, cold and bitter.

Sam thinks that he doesn’t seem like the George he knows at all.

But, considering the circumstances, perhaps that is to be expected. After all—

“I want to see him, Sam.”

_ After all, he has just lost his best friend. His lover. _

There are no tears in George’s eyes. His voice is clear and steady, smooth and calm.

It does not match the weight of his stance, and something about it, something about the liquid silk that lilts the edges of his words, is deeply unsettling.

Sam wonders if George is on the brink of something, the very same brink that Dream had thrown himself from, some months ago, when he started building cages for people, collecting the most precious items of the ones he once called friends.

_ Sam wonders if, perhaps, insanity is contagious. _

They were close.  _ Too close. _

And that is why Sam cannot let him in.

He rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that has suddenly begun to build in them, and he sighs.

“I can’t, George. I’m sorry.”

_ “Why?” _

The demanding anger in his tone doesn’t suit him, doesn’t suit the passivity that Sam had come to associate with George, and he feels his face pinch from underneath his mask.

“You  _ know _ why, George.”

Sam can’t read anything in George’s face. It is a blank slate, as he considers his options, as his hands clench and unclench by his sides, while his gaze is fixed upon the ground in front of them.

No, George’s face is unreadable. But the  _ aura  _ radiating off of him is  _ murderous. _

Sam takes a step back.

“George,” he frowns, uneasy, and the trident is heavy on his back as he confirms his earlier statement, _ “I can’t let you in.” _

The other man looks up, slowly, and the venom in his glare is enough to make Sam shudder.

There is nothing but  _ hatred _ and  _ rage _ in those eyes, and Sam finds himself locked in his gaze, locked in as George sighs, and shakes his head.

“I like you, Sam,” he says, with a soft smile that has no place on an expression so malicious, “It’s a shame you had to come to this decision.”

_ “What—“ _

The question is cut off as Sam flinches, and he presses a hand against the sharp pain that burns in his abdomen, pulsing in a sickening rhythm.

He takes a shaky breath, and as his stomach pulses, he glances down at his hand.

_ Hands. _

There’s a double-picture in his vision, and his extremities blur into multiples. When he looks up, there are two George’s, still smiling, as bile creeps up Sam’s throat.

“Is everything alright, Sam?” His voice is still too even, too flat, too polite, “You’re sweating.”

Is he?

_ He is.  _

The heat, oh god, the heat is  _ unbearable,  _ and Sam can feel the perspiration as it beads upon his skin, humidity building underneath the mask, and the layers he wears.

“George,” he hisses through nauseating pain, “George, what did you  _ do?” _

There’s a pattern forming on George’s skin, a glowing conglomeration of red and white, a faint replication of the appearance of the mushrooms that appear in the coniferous areas of the forest.

The pattern gathers around his hands, creeping up from the fingertips, and it bunches around the corners of his eyes, spreading across his cheekbones, and Sam watches as it grows, spreads like the mycelium it would connect to.

_ Oh god, is he hallucinating?  _

“I want to see him, Sam,” George steps forward, so close,  _ too close,  _ “Let me  _ see him.” _

The trident is heavy on Sam’s back.

_Too heavy. Weighing him down._

He swings with an empty hand instead.

George makes no motion to dodge it.

Sam misses. 

He stumbles from the weight of his own punch, and he stares at his fist, confused, delirious.

_“How—“_

“Your depth perception is a little off,” when Sam looks up again, George is further away, “It’s a common side effect.”

“Side effect of  _ what?” _

“Of  _ me,”  _ George grins, red stained, white freckled,  _ “Of fly amanita.” _

They are left staring at one another, a once-king and sick warden, staring at friends that once were, staring at pieces falling into place.

_ The mushroom king. _

Sam swallows the vomit that creeps into his mouth, swallows it along with the acrid taste of terror and the sour bite of confusion.

He will not fail as a warden. 

He stands tall.

“I can’t let you see him, George.”

George blinks.

And then he chuckles.

Sam resumes normality. 

There are no mushroom patterns. There is no double-picture. There is no nausea, no confusion, no fever.

Normality is welcomed, as he gasps, and grabs for the trident strapped to his back.

But George is already leaving. 

“It’s no matter, Sam, really,” he calls back, casual, light-hearted, “After all—“

He glances over his shoulder.

_ “I have other ways in.” _

**Author's Note:**

> let him IN please
> 
> also yeah I’m implying that George is brainwashing ranboo into setting off the bombs via mushroom mind control powers what of it


End file.
